Red Dead Resolution
by Trum4n
Summary: The West, 1915. Jack Marston guns down 16 men in Armadillo. The Bureau puts together a team to track him down and kill him, beginning a series of battles from Mexico to Tall Trees
1. Prologue: The Outlaw

For starters, welcome everyone, to my story, _Red Dead Resolution. _This has been a brain child of mine for some time, and I finally decided to start it. Now for starters, some things. First, I will make weapons work off real world standards, and not in game. Ie, the Hi-Power, while strong in the game, will be relatively weak in this (as in real life) and thus most Bureau characters will use an M1911. Likewise, I will be adding in other, period specific weapons.

Next, you'll note a change in some character's wardrobes, especially with Jack. This was to show him becoming his own person, and in his case his new outfit is a mix of Landon Ricketts' outfit, the Legend of the West outfit, and his original outfit.

Lastly, any questions, feel free to message me or post in the reviews. I can't make any promises with how often I'll update, but I'll try to stay regular with it. I hope you enjoy this story.

Cheers, Trum4n

Prologue: The Outlaw

Armadillo, 1915

Benjamin Hodges smiled drunkenly as he raked in the large pile of chips. He was doing well tonight, better than he had in a long time. The Walton's Gang members eyed him enviously as he made the $100, and now he was at $600.

He dealt the next hand, and checked his cards. A 9 and a King. He could make that work.

"Bet $10." He slurred.

"Raise, $15." replied another gang member, Eric Gross, who tossed in his chips. The rest of the table called or raised, ending with a pot of $52. Benjamin tossed in another $40. They kept going, reaching $164 when the last man folded, and Hodges again dragged the pile of chips and possessions over to him.

"Barkeep, another round!" he shouted. The man nodded and pulled out shot glasses, and then the whiskey. The other gang members nodded their appreciation. The whores kept an eye on Hodges, which he enjoyed, going as far as to tip his top hat to them and wink, which, in his state, came out as an exaggerated twitch. Oh, tonight would be good.

The doors to saloon suddenly opened, and a young man strolled into the saloon, looking round. He wore black pants tucked into black riding boots, a white button up covered with a dark gray vest and a black long coat, and a notched dark gray hat with a small feather in the brim. A bandoleer was slung across his chest, and a rifle was holstered behind his back. A big, intimidating Schofield revolver was holstered comfortably on his hip, opposite a satchel and a coil of rope. A Red sash was wrapped around the belt as a personal trademark. The boy's face was handsome, with a well groomed mustache and goatee, long hair, and sharp, strong angles, but already covered with a number of scars. He looked to be in his early 20's.

The boy casually scanned the saloon, moving over to the bar. He picked up one of Hodges' whiskies, threw money on the bar, and slammed it down in a smooth motion. He went to the next one before Hodges stood up angry.

"What the fuck you doin boy?" he snarled in a drunken rage. The boy turned and eyed him up and down, pausing on the hat, a trademark of Walton's Gang members.

"Having a drink friend." the boy replied.

"Those're my fuckin drinks boy."

The boy looked to the barkeep, who nodded in confirmation.

"Sorry friend. I'll pay you back f-" he began, but Hodges cut him off.

"The fuck you will, you're buyin us all drinks boy."

The boy stared at him ,suddenly still. "Don't call me boy, mister." he said, his voice hard.

"I'll call you what the fuck I want, bo-" Hodges' head suddenly shot back, a bullet hole appearing neatly in the center. The other gang members began to draw, and the boy gunned them down, all five of them, quickly, the Schofield suddenly in his hands as if it had appeared there.

The entire saloon had gone silent as the boy walked over to the bodies, reloading his revolver, the sound of the shell casings audible in the sudden silence. The boy nudged Hodges with his foot.

"I told you. Don't call me boy." he loaded in the last round and spun the pistol back into its holster. He eyed the table, and grabbed all the bank notes on it, turning to the barkeeper.

"Use the rest of my friend's earnings here to pay for everyone's drinks for the night." he ordered, and the man nodded.

"'Course, Mister...?"

"Marston. My name's Jack Marston." the boy said, turning to go up the stairs. An older man walked over to the bodies. All had been killed with a headshot.

"Holy Chrsit, I ain't seen anyone shoot like that since Landon Ricketts."

"Good reason for that old timer." Jack said to the man, stopping to look at him. "Landon Ricketts taught me." he turned away and kept going, feeling the shocked stares on his back. Jack Marston grinned.

...

Jack woke up to the sound of horses outside the saloon. A lot of them. He got up and put on his jacket, boots, gun belt and hat, and went onto the porch of the saloon, the bright sun biting into his eyes. He adjusted the hat and looked down, onto the street.

A group of ten Walton's Gang men were hitching their horses and moving for the saloon. For him. Jack went back into his room and opened the chest there and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and a bandoleer of shells. He put the shotgun in his back-holster and the shells across his chest, listening for the creak of the stairs. Nothing yet. He checked the Schofield, like Ricketts and his Pa had taught him, and walked out of the room, drawing the shotgun but keeping it low, down by his side.

Four men had entered the saloon and were talking to the barkeep, threateningly. One of them made a sweeping gesture behind him, indicating what could be smashed, or burnt perhaps, if they weren't helped. Jack overheard his name once, and grinned.

He reached the stairs and strolled down, watching the gang members, and picked out the leader, a big son of a bitch with a thick black beard and a Springfield carbine. He goes down first.

Jack raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The two barrels roared, blowing the man to the ground in a shower of gore and blood, his chest suddenly open. The others spun as Jack broke open the gun and loaded in another two shells, sprinting for the nearest table. He dropped to the ground and kicked it onto its side, making a shield. It was old hardwood, good enough. The gang members opened fire, revolvers and another carbine barking, the top of the table shattering into splinters.

Jack blind fired with the shotgun and dropped it, drawing his Schofield. He stood up and shot one man through the chest, twice, the blows knocking the man back. He went to the next one and fired without aiming, managing to put one round into the right shoulder. The man was spun around and hit the saloon wall, but began to get back up, switching his revolver to his other hand. Jack dropped back down, scooping up the shotgun and reloading it.

He moved from the cover and dived, firing with both weapons, making up for accuracy with the sheer amount of metal he was firing. the wounded man was hit again in the leg and dropped, screaming. The other man took the shotgun blasts to the stomach, hitting the ground hard and not moving.

Jack hit the ground in a bad landing, and could only watch as the wounded man brought the revolver to bear, angrily, his teeth curling in a snarl. Suddenly, another shotgun boomed, and the man's chest was shredded. Jack picked himself up and looked at the barkeep, who had cracked open his gun and loaded another two shells into it. He nodded to Jack.

"No one threatens my establishment." he stated, and Jack laughed and tipped his hat. Six more left. Jack holstered the shotgun and reloaded the Schofield, moving towards the door. He exited calmly, and quickly sighted the other members, who had heard the shots and were leaving their positions to see what had happened.

Jack went from left to right, dropping them one by one faster than they could react, each one an expert headshot. in seconds, it was over, and the bodies lay in the street. Jack eyed them all for a second, before he walked away, reloading the revolver. He strolled down the street, holstering his gun, before stopping at the local coffin-maker. Jack entered and apologized to the man.

"Sorry about all the extra work Mister." He said, and tossed $30 onto the man's counter, and left.

...

Blackwater, 1915, two days later.

Archer Fordham scanned the paper again, his eyes stopping on the word massacre, and the name, Jack Marston. He could barely get past those three words. Marston. Fucking Marston.

"Jesus Christ." He said, and looked up at Junior Agent Tom Mason. "We've confirmed this?"

"Yes sir. It's the same Marston who's been robbing coaches, bank wagons, and the occasional train . The description fits, right down to the revolver he likes."

Archer nodded. "The Schofield. His father liked it too." he said. Tom looked at him, surprised.

"You knew his father?"

"Yep. John Marston. Member of Dutch Van Der Linde's gang. He recruited him to hunt down the gang, back when Edgar Ross was my boss. Later, we went after him, and got him. Ross retired shortly after. The family, well, we never looked for them."

"Why not?"

"Why would we? They hadn't committed a crime. Between you and me, I always thought going after Marston was a mistake. Guess time has vindicated me." Archer laughed slightly. "Ideas?"

"We should go after him sir. With our resources we can-"

"Resources? Mr. Mason, the Bureau office here is you and I and two other agents. Not a lot of resources. Most of the army is out trying to keep Pancho Villa's revolution from spilling over the border, and the local police wont go off to hunt an outlaw in New Austin. And I sure as hell will not take a posse after Marston if he's this good." He stabbed a finger into the paper. "16 men total, ten of them out to get him and prepared for him, all of them violent men."

Tom nodded, seeing his point. "Sir, should we wire Chicago, get more men?"

Archer stared at the paper, not reading it. Marston. Fucking Marston. "Yes. Yes, Mr. Mason, please do so. Good men, and as many as we can get. We'll need them."


	2. Chapter 1: The Lawman

Chapter One: The Law Man

Eugene Brigham Hayes stepped off the ferry into the small town of Blackwater. He was dressed impeccably in a well tailored dark gray suit and slouch hat. His face was youthful but confident, the look of a man who was clearly moving up in his life and was enjoying every bit of it.

Hayes was a rising star in the Bureau. At only 26, he had been behind the arrests of numerous criminals and former outlaws. He was smart and clever and humble, a rare thing in the Bureau. He was also ambitious, which helped. The nickname of the 'fox' had arisen around him and he enjoyed it, knowing the title was only helping him.

He waited, absentmindedly tipping his hat to passerby's. A car pulled up and man dressed just like a Bureau man got out. He was a short man, someone who seemed more used to desk work than anything else. He walked up to Hayes and extended his hand.

"Mr. Hayes I presume?" Eugene nodded and took the hand, a the man continued. "Tom Mason, Blackwater Office. Here to collect you for my boss. He told me to apologize for not coming himself, busy meeting some of the other new arrivals."

Again, Eugene nodded. "Not surprised, and certainly not offended. Busy man. Who's the new arrival?"

"John Hart, on loan from the Marshals."

"John Hart? You sure?" Eugene was surprised. He had heard of Hart, or rather his reputation. The man was famous as an outlaw hunter. He had been active since 1885, and was to be feared by any who would break the law.

"Sure as can be Mr. Hayes." Tom replied as they hopped into the car, and started off. The steady pace set up a nice, cooling breeze. "I've seen his picture before and it was him, I'd bet my life on it."

"I'll be." Hayes said, and settled in. The car had been more of a sign of status. The Bureau Office had been close enough to walk to, easily. The two got out and went outside, past a clerk who was too busy counting something to pay the pair too much attention at all.

Tom led him to a door, marked simply "A. Fordham." the glass had been made impossible to see through, though Hayes could make out shapes behind the glass. Tom nocked twice, and waited.

"Come on in." came a reply, and Tom opened the door, holding it open for Hayes, who nodded his thanks and entered.

Two men were in the office, standing to greet him. The one behind the desk, Mr. Fordham, was tall and well built, with a hard face and a nose that reminded Hayes of a boxer's. He was wearing a suit, though without the coat. A shoulder holster held a Cattleman revolver, an old Army 1873, chambered for the .45. His suit was simple, and not horridly expensive, probably an effort to make him look more like the people he was protecting. His temples were already graying. Hayes judged him to be in his late 30's to early 40's.

The next man was different. He was neither tall nor thin. His hair was longer than normal, and a steely gray, like his thick mustache. He was 55, Hayes knew, though physically, he could outfight any man more than half his age. His suit was nice, but a much older style, a prairie brown, and Hayes suspected that it was rarely worn. A large, flat hat of a matching color sat easily on his head.

John Hart's face was creased and lined. His eyes, or rather his eye, for the left was covered by an eye patch, had crows feet at the corners, earned from a life of squinting in the distance. They were a steely, angry gray, the color of storm clouds.

He nodded lightly to Hayes, and offered his hand. "John Hart. You must be Mr. Hayes. Heard lot about you."

Hayes took the hand, and shook it, matching the rough steely grip as best he could. It was like a damn bear trap. Hart looked him in the eye, and nodded very lightly, impressed with what he had found it seemed.

Hayes turned to Fordham and the two introduced themselves. Fordham motioned for the two men to sit, and they did. Fordham slumped into the seat. "Well, Mr. Hayes, do you know the situation?"

Hayes nodded. "Yes. An outlaw murdered a bunch of other men in the town of Armadillo. Apparently this man was also behind a number of other crimes, mainly old style robberies."

Fordham nodded. "Yes. It was pretty high profile. Right there in the tavern, just gunned them down."

"Who'd he kill?" Hart asked, his voice like gravel being swished around in a bucket.

"A couple of members of the Walton Gang, local gro-"

"Murderer killed other murderers?"

Fordham nodded, sighing.

"So why do we really care? Really." Hart asked.

"Because this is a civilized land, Mr. Hart. And we'll not tolerate things like this." Fordham replied, hotly.

"But you'll tolerate an entire gang who do things like this?" Now Hart sounded cold, angry. Fordham glared at him. Hayes wisely settled further into his seat and away from the pair. While in terms of loyalty, he should side with Fordham, but frankly he did agree with Hart. He had no taste at all for law breakers of any sort.

Fordham and Hart stared each other down for a minute until he sighed and leaned back. "Mr. Hart. We're poorly understaffed. We get minimal assistance from New Austin, and we've only got four Buereau men assigned here full time, including me, and frankly, Mr. Mason outside is a paper pusher. I'd like to do more. God only knows I would. But frankly, I can't."

Hart's look softened, and he nodded. "Even you government boys have problems, huh?"

Hayes waited until the mood had passed and spoke up. "Mr. Fordham, what exactly are we doing? Even with Mr. Hart and I, we're still fairly understaffed for any kind of big manhunt. And frankly, if this Marston fellow is as good as the paper says, we're gonna need more."

Fordham nodded. "I've got nine other Bureau men on the way. And Mr. Hart, the Marshals have promised another two men as well. You'll be well equipped. Evans repeaters, Bolt-action rifles, Colt pistols, the works. Mr. Hayes, I want you to head up the Bureau men, and Mr. Hart, the Marshals are all yours. Does that work?"

Hayes nodded, as did Hart. The two didn't ask the obvious question, which one was in charge. They could deal with it later. All three men stood and Hayes and Hart left. The two went back outside, in the warm spring air.

Hart stopped him and handed him a cigar, holding another for himself. "Thank you Mr. Hart." Hayes said, lighting it with a lighter. Hart eyed the device for a second and laughed lightly, pulling out a match and lighting his. Hart motioned for him to follow, and the two walked down the street.

"Mr. Hayes, let's get one thing straight. I don't much care for this situation." He puffed, the cigar producing a strong, blue smoke. Hayes puffed on his lightly. It was nice and strong, not quite what he was used to, but he liked it.

"Mind if I ask why?"

Hart blew out a slow stream of smoke. "Frankly, I don't know how you Bureau boys do. At least out here. I heard about what that fellow Ross did. The only member of Van Der Linde's gang he took out personally was Marston senior and that was a goddamn blood bath. No offense, but I don't see any finesse in how you guys operate. And out here, this is a different kind of prey than what you're used to. You need finesse, and skill, and frankly experience."

"I have experience, Mr. Hart."

"I don't doubt it. But tell me, you ever been out here? Tried to catch a man in the open plains, where he can see you coming, where there isn't a building to block your line of sight, or anything like that?"

Hayes shook his head. "No, I haven't." He slowly exhaled the smoke through his teeth. "Look, I think you should take the lead on this one. You've got the experience."

Hart glanced at him, and snorted. "No, those Bureau boys probably won't listen to me. They're gonna follow you. Trying to relinquish command early huh?"

"No. I don't believe in any of that 'getting the glory' shit. I want to see the job done, and done right. If that means leaving it up to you, then I'll do it."

Hart turned and looked at him full on. "Rare to meet a man with that mentality. Refreshing really." he extended his hand again, this time smiling. "Call me John, Mr. Hayes."

Hayes shook it. "Only if you call me Eugene."


	3. Chapter 2: Gathering Guns

Chapter 2: Assembling Guns

Hayes sat in his small room at the local bar, reading over the newest batch of papers and reports. The Marshals, a battered and rough looking pair named Brian Cobb and 'Texas' McBride had already arrived and were downstairs, waiting on his last man. For the Bureau, six men had arrived, McCoy, Chamberlain, Dupont, Fitzroy, Bauer, and Decker, all of whom had been given lodgings either with local Policemen, or in the bar. Fordham's other two men, a pair named Reynolds and Pope, were going with them. The last man they were waiting on, Ewell, was due in shortly.

So far it looked like a good group. All of the men had been under fire before and had done well. All were fairly good pistol or rifle shots, and most had experience in both urban work and out in the countryside, though none could match the Marshals. Hayes was satisfied with them.

To make things better, Fordham had made good on his weapons. A shipment of M1911s and Springfield rifles had arrived, along with some Evans repeaters, and they had taken their pick. The Marshals had stuck with their personal weapons mostly, but the Bureau men took their pick, all of them brandishing powerful Colt pistols and other weapons.

Hayes shook his head. He'd been spending the past two evenings reading and talking with Hart, trying to get an idea on both West Elizabeth and New Austin, learning roads, towns, landmarks, everything he could. He was quick learner, but still, he knew nothing beat first hand experience.

He'd also read up on Jack Marston as much as he could. The man's story almost sounded like a damn tragedy. As a boy, he'd been raised by outlaws. For a sadly short amount of time, only two years, he'd been able to have a normal life before the government had taken him hostage and set his father out to kill his former gang. When his father returned, he'd only had a few days before Edgar Ross came to finish the job. Young Jack buried his father and their ranch hand on the same day. Later he dropped off the map, reappearing only occasionally, before returning to bury his mother at 19. There, he disappeared almost completely, with only descriptions that sounded like him from Mrs. Ross and Edgar's brother, and some others. He wouldn't appear again for another two months, when he began robberies.

And some of those were damned impressive. Marston worked alone, and usually was able to gun down large numbers of men by himself when things got violent. Jack Marston had become a new name to be feared, so much so that his last couple of robberies had been over in minutes, with no fight. Hayes noted it all, had to know what his opponent was capable of.

A series of knocks came at his door and John Hart walked in, dressed in different clothes, an animal hide coat with his Marshal's badge on it, brown pants, and his hat. A bandoleer was strapped across his chest and a Springfield was slung across his back. He nodded to Hayes.

"Got some news. Jack Marston robbed another bank wagon, north of Fort Mercer."

…

They dismounted at the site of the robbery. The survivors and the dead had already been taken to Armadillo. All that was left the wagon, blood stains and shell casings. Hayes, Hart, Cobb, McBride, Dupont and Decker had all come to survey the area, along with the man who had found it, a guy named Murphy.

The Wagon was fairly well destroyed, the rear wheels blown off. There was a small crater and scorch mark in the ground. Hart walked over to it and squatted down, peering into the wagon. The interior still stank with the smell of blood, and the lock of safe-box had been busted off. There were a handful of loose dollars scattered throughout the interior, strays that had been missed. A single .45 Schofield casing sat in the dust a few feet away

Hayes got up and walked away from the wagon, surveying the ground. He could see a few spots that indicated bloodstains, though traffic had disrupted them mostly. He nudged the spots a couple of times and was rewarded with the occasional shell casing.

He kept going, until at ten feet away he stood at a broken cart. There he found a small pile of shell casings, those belonging to a .45 Schofield. He nodded and turned back to Hart and the others, who were watching him patiently. "I know what happened."

…

Marston stood by the cart, watching the bank wagon coming, slowly and surely. He had taken off his coat, trying look unthreatening as possible, which always helped with this particular ruse. There were five he could see, three on horseback and two on the wagon, not a big group. About ten feet away, Jack called out.

"Howdy! My cart broke down, ya'll mind giving me a lift?"

The bankers, Pinkertons by Jack's guess, stopped, the apparent leader staring at him intently, looking for a gun and not seeing one. He relaxed, but only slightly. "What happened?"

Jack laughed helplessly and motioned to the wagon. "Damn cougar scared the horse somethin' fierce and it went nuts. Broke the wheel in a rut and ran the hell off." He shook his head sadly. "It was a damn fine horse."

The leader nodded his head understandingly. Cougars were common around here and the young man was lucky it hadn't come after him. "Tell you what son, you wait here while we make our delivery and we'll send a coach back to you, that okay?"

Jack shook his head and sighed. "You sure I can't get a ride mister? It's a dangerous place to be with no gun."

"Yeah, sorry kid, not a whole lot else we can do." The leader said, seeming generally sorry, and Jack grimaced. He wouldn't enjoy that part of the job.

"Jesus Bill, just leave him already!" A man on the wagon yelled, and Jack immediately decided that he would enjoy that part.

"Well Mister, how about you just give me the money in the wagon?" Jack asked, innocently, and the Pinkertons froze, the words sinking in. All of them went for their guns.

Jack drew his Schofield from behind his back and gunned down the asshole on the wagon, a shot to the head. He shifted his aim and shot to the rear of the wagon. He hit his target, a small bundle of dynamite he had hidden in the brush. The wagon shot forward, the wheels blasted to pieces and the other man being thrown off like a poor son of a bitch.

Jack turned and took out Bill and the other riders, shoulder shots that threw them off their horses and into the dust. He shifted his aim and wounded the last wagon man, who was still stunned.

In only a couple of seconds, it was over. Jack broke open the Schofield and reloaded it, moving towards wounded men who were only just recovering. He casually scooped up their revolvers and tossed them away. The leader, Bill watched him do it.

"You didn't kill us?"

"You're just doing your job," Jack replied, the Schofield still in hand. "And I'm doing mine. Nothing personal Mister." Bill snorted and then winced. Jack laid out some bandages and supplies from his satchel on the ground and didn't say anything else, walking towards the wagon.

A shot rang out from the wagon, and narrowly missed Jack, grazing his shirt. He twisted and fired off a single shot, taking the sixth man, hiding in the wagon, cleanly through the neck. The man was dead before he hit the ground. Jack reloaded, a lesson from Ricketts, and walked forward, the revolver held low but ready. No movement.

He opened the door and pulled out the safe-box. The box was heavy and solidly built, but the lock itself was cheap, so Jack simply hammered it off with the butt of his Schofield. It fell uselessly in the dirt. $400 cash dollars sat in front of him, mostly higher bills, but enough ones to look unappealing. Jack quickly and thoroughly shoveled what he wanted into his satchel, keeping anything bigger than a $5 from being blown away. A handful of ones escaped back into the wagon. Jack simply shrugged and shoved the box back inside. He got up, walking back to his cart, where he grabbed the rest of his gear and clothing. He turned back to Bill, who was bandaging his wound. "I'll make sure Armadillo sends someone soon." and he walked away, whistling for his black stallion as he went.

…

Hayes waited for the replies. Cobb and McBride seemed to scoff, Dupont and Decker seemed to be digesting his readings of the scene, and Hart seemed genuinely impressed. He nodded to Hayes.

"You read the ground well Gene. Damned impressive."

Hayes nodded his thanks. McBride spoke up.

"So you're telling us Marston spared four of the Pinkertons and even sent help back for them? Thats bull." Cobb nodded and Hayes grinned cockily at them.

"Mister Cob, Mister McBride, you two know anything about Jack Marston?"

"We know he's a murdering scum and he needs a tight rope 'round his ne-"

"So you know nothing." Hayes interrupted, harshly, and the two seemed taken aback by the sudden change in cocky smile was still there, but the expression was colder, angrier. "You two ever hear of profiling? I bet not." His tone switched now, like he was talking to children. McBride bristled, while Cobb, though offended, wasn't ignoring him.

Hayes continued. "It's something we started doing back east. We build a dossier on the men we hunt, learn how they think and act, patterns and behaviors, etc. Mr. Hart here was using it for years, just long before we named it. Let me make this clear. Cold blooded murder isn't Marston. He'll kill, yes, but in every example, someone antagonized him or outright opened fire on him, or attacked someone else in front of him. He prefers wounding to killing. And this wouldn't be the first time he actually had aid sent back for wounded men."

McBride scoffed, but Cobb spoke up. "Sorry. Never worked with you Bureau fellows before. Nothing personal."

Hayes nodded, and turned to Murphy. "Any chance we can see those Pinkertons?" Murphy nodded.

"Yeah, I think we can do that."

…

They entered Armadillo at around 5 in the afternoon, and the town saloon was lively. Murphy rode up to Hayes and nodded to the building. "Ya'll can wait in there, I'll see if any of the Pinkerton boys can talk."

Hayes nodded his thanks, and the men tied their horses outside. Hayes stopped to scan the ground. This was where Marston had killed those men just a short time ago. He shook his head and followed the others into the saloon, bumping into a man in black coat and black hat on his way out.

The other man, a younger man was apparently deep in thought, and bumped into Hayes hard, knocking his hat off. Before Hayes could even begin to get it, the other man scooped it up and handed it to him. "Sorry about that Mister."

Hayes dusted it off and put it back on. "Not a problem. Have a good evening." The other man returned the sentiment and Hayes entered the saloon, following Hart to a table while the others went to the bar. The two sat down, and held up a hand to the bartender, indicating for a shot glass of whiskey each while they waited.

…

As he walked away from the saloon, Jack Marston thought back to the man he had bumped into and shook his head. He really slipped up, was that close to a person and didn't even notice him. If the man had been out to kill him, he'd have been in deep trouble.

Jack laughed softly. He sure was lucky the man in the suit and slouch hat didn't have any such goal in mind.

…

They were there for an hour before Murphy returned with another man, his shoulder bandaged. Hayes recognized the description as Bill the Pinkerton. The two joined them at the table, and Hayes immediately bought them both a drink.

Bill nodded his thanks. "Well, I heard you men wanted to talk with me?"

Hart nodded. "Yes, Mr...?"

"Young."

"Right. You were shot by Jack Marston in his robbery the other day."

Bill Young nodded. "Yes sir. Wrote up a report to my boss, have a copy here." He began to reach for a satchel hanging from his side, winced, and looked to Murphy. The other man pulled it out of the satchel, and handed it to Hayes, who began to read it, while Hart asked Bill more questions. Halfway through it, his eyes froze on one spot.

"Mr. Young, it says here he wore a black hat with a duck feather in it, that correct?" Bill nodded, and Hayes continued. "Describe it for me."

"Average sized brim, worn, white feather." Bill reported, and Hayes set the report down and turned to Hart.

"He was here. We passed him on the way out. Hell, I bumped into him."


	4. Chapter 3: Crossing Paths

Chapter 3- First Meeting

Jack Marston was leaning back in his chair at the corner table in Rathskeller Fork, nursing a glass of whiskey, when the man walked in. He was young, probably 17 or 18, and wearing a tattered duster over what was clearly the clothing of a farmer. A revolver sat in a holster strapped across his waist, not a bad spot for an expert, but this kid was clearly no expert.

The kid walked up to the bartender and showed him a piece of paper. The bartender looked at it for a minute, and looked at the kid, and Marston knew the bartender had just looked to his corner. He let the chair fall back and slid one hand onto the Schofield, keeping it obvious.

The kid walked up to his table and stood there, glancing at the Schofield and swallowing.

"You Jack Marston?" the boy asked, his voice shaky. Jack nodded slowly, his eyes steel. "I'm here to collect a bounty on you."

"You decided you'd tell me before you attempted to kill me? Thats bad practice friend." Jack said.

"More warning than you gave my brother I reckon." The boy replied, voice still shaky, but now with a fire of rage behind it. Jack winced, lightly. God, he knew how the kid felt.

"What was your brother's name?" Jack asked, softening his tone just a bit.

"Tom Babey. He was a rancher, and you shot him dead at Thieve's Landing."

"Tom Babey you said?" the boy nodded. "Kid, your brother was about to take a knife to a prostitute. He was gonna cut her face up."

"He was drunk! He weren't thinkin-"

"So I was supposed to let him do it?" Jack interrupted, angrily. "You're here on a fool errand. Get out."

The boy shook his head. "No. I don't give goddamned for your reasons, you killed my brother. And I'm gonna kill you." His hand began to move for the revolver.

Jack bolted to his feet and drew, firing into the kid's stomach, two solid, quick shots. The boy stumbled to the ground and all activity in the bar stopped. In the silence, Jack reloaded his Schofield, glancing around the saloon. Everything had stopped, the clatter of the empty shell casings ringing loudly. Finally, the piano man shrugged and went back to playing. Conversation resumed shortly after.

Jack walked to the saloon keeper, and dropped a stack of bank notes on the bar. "Get the kid a decent burial. I'll be looking for the grave, so you better do it right."

The man nodded and Jack walked out into the night, passing two men walking in. They wore suits and had fancy guns holstered. Colt 1911 pistols. Government men. Jack nodded to them and slightly increased his pace. He'd seen that kind of outfit before. And no one in that saloon had any loyalty to him. He was twenty feet away when the two men burst out after him, guns drawn. They were prepared and ready to shoot. Against almost anyone, that would have decided the fight right then.

Almost anyone.

Jack had the Schofield drawn and was halfway turned around when they came back. He fired a snap shot and dove. It went wide and the two men returned fire, aiming at where his muzzle flash had been. Jack hit the ground and hurried to his feet, firing a second time. He had a chance, but it wasn't huge. These were lawmen. Bureau men if his guess was right. They were trained, if not experienced, and they had the edge in firepower. Seven shots to his six wasn't good.

He scrambled towards some barrels to his left, the Bureau men walking towards him, firing and reloading. They knew how to do it, Jack could give them that. There was hardly a pause and there was never a case where both weren't shooting.

Jack reached back behind his belt, his hand closing around a wooden handle, and he darted out of cover, whipping the throwing the knife at the Bureau men. It hit one of them, handle first right onto the man's hand and he yelped, dropping his pistol on reflex. Jack lined him up and fired, the bullet hitting him square in the right shoulder, twisting him around and dropping him. The second man opened on him and Marston dropped onto his back, firing again, hitting him in the head below the left eye. The man dropped to the ground hard.

The first man scooped up his pistol in his left hand and opened fire. Jack scrambled up, could feel the bullets go by, felt one tug at his pants leg, and he moved back and to the stables, trying to let the darkness cover him up. He mounted his horse and left, the living Bureau man still firing behind him.

…

Eugene Hayes sighed and shook his head. "Decker got it huh?"

Himself, Hart, and Dupont were the only ones in the small saloon room in New Austin. No one else had come down south yet.

Dupont nodded, wincing at the motion. The people at Rathskeller folk had done their best for his shoulder, and he wouldn't lose anything, but it still hurt. "Yes sir. Marston opened up on us as soon as we came out for him. He hit my hand with a knife and go-"

"He hit you with a throwing knife in the dark?" Hart asked and Dupont nodded. Hart whistled lightly, impressed.

Dupont continued. "he got me in the shoulder, and then shot Decker in the face. After that he got out. Total time, probably a minute." He swore softly. "Son of a bitch was right there, had killed some kid just before we got there."

Hayes shook his head. "You shouldn't have gone after him. It was just two of you." He eyed Pope's shoulder. "When will you be ready?"

Dupont shrugged as best he could. "I can shoot alright with my left, but reloading and riding is a bitch. I'll be out of it for a while."

Hayes had expected it and nodded. "So now we're down two." he swore softly. "Alright. Mr. Hart, get the others down here. We'll start looking as soon as they rrive."

"Are we ready to go after him Mr. Hayes? Once we start, we won't be able to let up." Hart asked, quietly.

Hayes looked over at his table, the letter sitting there, _Dear Mrs. Decker, I regret to inform you of your husband's death in the line of duty..._

He nodded. "Yes Mr. Hart. We're ready."


	5. Chapter 4: Battle at Gaptooth Breach

Hayes eyed the mine with a telescope. It was an old one, but there seemed to be a decent crowd of men there, all going in and out. It didn't seem right. This wasn't the sort of place Jack Marston would hide in. He turned back to Cobb.

"You're sure he's here?"

Cobb nodded. "Yes sir. We found his trail outside of Rathskeller Fork. He likes to ride off the road so I'm sure it was him. Went straight here. Haven't seen any sign of him leaving." Pope nodded his agreement.

Seven of them were there, himself included. Hart, Cobb, Pope, Fitzroy, and Ewell, all armed and ready. Hayes had faith in them, but he still cast a dubious glance towards those miners. They had all looked tough and armed.

He swore again the lack of men he could gather on short notice. Dupont was still hurt and the rest were riding through various settlements in New Austin, searching for any sign of Marston.

He turned back to the scope and looked at the mines again. "What do they call this place?"

"Gaptooth Breach. Mine has officially been shut down for a while. My guess is these men are picking the bones looking for something," Cobb supplied. Hayes nodded. They didn't look like men employed by a company.

"Hart, what do you think?"

Hart moved next to him and took a glance through the telescope; he frowned. "Lots of rifles and high ground there. All it takes is a couple of them to get a good angle and we're finished. If shooting breaks out." He put enough emphasis on the 'if' to make sure he knew it was meant as a 'when.' Hayes agreed. While not technically illegal, such men detested lawmen coming onto their turf.

He turned back to the group. Hart and Cobb had the most experience and best long-range rifles, an old Springfield carbine and its newer relative, the bolt-action Springfield. "Hart, Cobb, you have half an hour to get on a good spot where you can cover us from. Put those rifles to use." He pointed to the Bureau men. "Fitzroy, you'll come with me, Pope and Ewell, you come along behind us nice and quiet and get into a spot where you can cover us. Use your repeaters."

Hart spoke up. "We going into those mines?"

Hayes thought about it. Finally, he replied. "If we have to. I'd prefer not to. Close quarters like that, it's whoever can pull the trigger first and I think they can afford a lot more people than us. We've got the shotguns for it though, and dynamite. We'll get there when we get there." Hart nodded, fair enough, and he and Cobb set out, going opposite ways, loping around towards the high ground.

Hayes and the Bureau men waited, the heat stifling. He glanced at a pocket watch, the minute hand ticking by. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty five. He stood up and they mounted up. They moved out, keeping to the road, Fitzroy and Hayes in front, Pope and Ewell behind. They both branched off, moving to the sides and dismounting, pulling out their repeaters. Hayes saw them begin to follow, picking their way through the brush. They weren't as invisible as Cobb and Hart, but few could be, and Hayes was satisfied with them.

Hayes and Fitzroy reached the camp and dismounted, hitching their horses. Already some of the miners stopped to look at them, dark eyes under shaded hats. Hayes and Fitzroy walked past them, hands loose and ready to draw.

Fitzroy glanced at the miners, and then at himself and Hayes. The miners were wearing clothes that bordered on rags, whereas he and Hayes were wearing rugged, but fairly nice suits, the rougher western style. "We stand out like whores in a church. Sir."

Hayes snorted but kept himself from laughing. A group of miners approached them, one man, a big son of a bitch, at their head. He was closer to seven feet than six, and covered in dirt. He and his four men stopped six or seven feet away from the Bureau men.

"Who're you?" he asked with an accent so thick that Hayes could hardly understand him. His teeth were yellow and black and Hayes could smell him from where he stood. He had a paw on a cattleman revolver.

Hayes took a step closer, nearly gagging on the man's smell. "We're lawmen. I'm Mr. Hayes and this is Mr. Fi-"

"Don't need no law out here, Law Dog," the man interrupted.

Hayes glared at him for a long second, and continued. "This is Mr. Fitzroy. We're here looking for a Jack Marston. Is he here?"

"Even if he were, I ain't tell no law dog," the man replied and Hayes sighed. Stubborn bastard.

"If he's here, hand him over, and there'll be no trouble. If not, we'll have to prosecute you to the furthest extent of the law." Literally as he finished, the head of one of the miner's to the right of the big bastard exploded, followed a split second later by the sound of a rifle. There was a second or two of everyone staring, shocked.

And then the big one called out "Yous killed Finny! Get 'em!"

Hayes went for his gun as he heard Fitzroy say, quite calmly, "Fuck me."

…

Jack Marston debated firing another round at the Bureau men, but decided against it, watching through the scope of his sniper's rifle as hell broke loose in Gaptooth Breach. The trap had been a simple one, and necessary. Jack had to know what these men could do.

He grinned as he watched them draw, as the man with the slouch hat, the one who had done the talking, plugged the big guy in the face, calm as you'd please. He was about to see what he was dealing with alright.

…

Hayes shifted over to one of the men on his right, putting another two rounds into him. Behind him Fitzroy had drawn a German Mauser that could fire automatically, and started strafing the miners to their left. The first five were down quickly, the last one taken by another unseen rifle shot, this time the distinctive crack of a Springfield. Hayes and Fitzroy darted to the right as more miners streamed out of the old mining building or the mines themselves.

The Bureau men dashed for cover, the air coming alive with the whine of bullets. Miners began to drop, unseen rifle and repeater rounds cutting them down.

Hayes popped up and emptied his 1911 into a man ten feet away, the slide locking back. He smoothly dropped out the magazine, his eyes not moving from his front, orienting on another target, and he loaded, ready to fire immediately.

Fitzroy, meanwhile, banged away with that pistol, providing a wall of covering fire unequaled by any other weapon on the scene. Miners dropped to avoid it, and were shot down by the hidden Marshals. Some of the miners went for high ground and were dropped, repeaters or rifles tearing into them.

Hayes got up and moved forward, Fitzroy covering him. He was moving towards some barrels, staying low. A miner came out of cover, a snap shot with a repeater that missed Hayes, but cut right by his ear, grazing it, and Hayes swore and returned fire, a rapid two shots that hit dead on in the chest. The man crumpled and Hayes hit the ground. He popped back up and snapped off more shots, providing fire for Fitzroy and now Pope, who moved out of concealment. Fitzroy slid into the position, and switched the magazine on his pistol.

"They seem a bit riled up, eh?" He popped up and gunned down one of the miners, the gun chattering. Pope joined them, carrying a Winchester repeater, the barrel smoking. Hayes nodded towards him, and motioned back towards the miners, motioning for covering fire, and the other two nodded, raising their weapons and opening up.

Hayes darted out of cover, eyeing the next bit of cover, moving towards the mine entrance. He moved fast, felt bullets whipping by him, one hard tug on his pants leg, ignored it. A man raised up in front of him, a revolver, and the 1911 barked. In a world of six shooters, the seven round 1911 automatic was king. Two shots to the upper chest dropped the man and Hayes dove into cover, giving covering fire for his comrades as they leapfrogged from position to position, clearing out the miners. From above the Marshals kept up their own fire, hammering any spot that held out with unnerving accuracy. The last miners began to retreat, moving into the mine itself.

An eerie silence descended as the two sides regrouped. Hayes felt his ear, winced, and ignored it. He checked his pocket watch: ten minutes. He was covered in dust and dirt and the air smelled of cordite and blood and gun-powder. Ewell, Cobb, and Hart had joined them with the horses, and all were dirty and soaked with sweat, though Hayes and Fitzroy and Pope had had the worst of it. They had been in the very thick of the fighting.

Hart eyed him, and then eyed the camp, the bodies and the bullet holes. He whistled. "Hell of a thing, seeing you Bureau men working." He nodded to Fitzroy. "Hell of a gun you got there."

Fitzroy grinned slightly and nodded. More than a few of the dead were because of the Mauser.

Hayes grabbed his canteen out of his pack on the horse and drank, the warm water undeservedly wonderful. He poured some on his hand and splashed it over his face and passed the canteen. He motioned for Hart to join him and the two moved away from the others.

"Do we go into the mines after them?" Hayes asked him.

Hart thought about it, nodded. "Yeah. We go through, make sure Marston isn't here. If he his, all good and well. If not, he knows we aren't messing around." Hart looked around, took a sip from his own canteen. "I'm thinking we won't find him here."

Hayes looked at him questioningly. "This place has only one exit, this valley." Hart motioned to the area around him as he explained. "There may be one more through the mines, but I can't see Marston cornering himself here. We could cut him off and trap him."

Hayes nodded as he thought about it. "Yeah that makes sense. Shit, we walked right into it."

Hart shrugged. "Law breakers are law breakers. I'm not complaining if we kill a few." He walked over to the horses and pulled a Winchester Model 1897 pump-action shotgun out of a sheath. He checked it, saw that it was loaded but not chambered and worked the slide, the menacing sound breaking the relative silence. Hart grinned and tossed the weapon to Hayes, who checked over the shotgun, and nodded back to Hart.

"Let's go finish it."

…

Hayes, Hart, and Ewell moved towards the mine entrance, keeping to the side. Hayes and Hart had shotgun bandoleers slung across their chests, the pump-actions in their hands. Ewell carried a 1911 and a lighter in one hand, and a stick of dynamite in the other, and he had several more in his pocket.

The others were moving around the countryside, looking for another exit to the mines, planning on cutting it off. Hayes and the others had the job of flushing anyone else towards them. They moved up to the entrance, and Hayes motioned for Ewell to move next him. He leaned over and called into the mine.

"Surrender! Drop your weapons and come out slowly!" He waited a half-beat, his echo the only response.

"You have exactly three seconds to comply! One! Two! Three!"

This time he was answered by a sudden roar of gunfire and he jerked back, nodded to Ewell, who gave him an extra stick of dynamite. The two lit them at the same time, waited a second, and tossed them inside the mine. They braced themselves, pressing into the rock, squeezing their eyes shut and keeping their mouths open to keep their ear drums from bursting in the explosion.

The ground shook, and Hayes opened his eyes, his ears ringing, his world a cloud of chalky white dust. He hefted the shotgun up and moved into the mine, Hart following after him, Ewell bringing up the rear. He could hardly see, the dust stinging his ear and his eyes, making them tear up. Hayes ignored it, saw a shape stumbling towards him, and he blasted it down, the roar of the gun muted, the whole thing happening with only the ringing to accompany it.

Hayes moved forward, slowly, gaining speed as he moved out of the dust cloud and could see better. His hearing returned steadily, and Hayes began to hear the boom of Hart's shotgun, the _ca-chunk_ of a new shell being chambered. Hayes loaded another round into his shotgun quickly, and moved around a bend. A bullet whizzed by his face and Hayes returned fire, blasting the miner to the ground, the roar monstrous now.

More miners came into view and Hayes held down the trigger, slam-firing the shotgun, spitting rounds as quickly as he could work the slide. Men fell brutally, the 12 gauge rounds gouging out huge chunks of their bodies.

He dropped down and reloaded, and Hart moved by him, emptying the shotgun and smoothly slinging it and drawing his revolver, a gorgeous black-metal .45 with bronze inlays. Men came around the bend and Hart gunned them down, impossibly fast, and yet not, every action almost seeming lazy and smooth and relaxed. Not every shot killed, but every single one hit its mark.

In seconds, they had killed nine or ten men, and most of those were Hart's.

Hayes could hear the sound of another wick being lit, and Ewell tossed it down the other tunnel, the explosion roaring and tearing, clearing it of anything that had been there. Hayes and Hart reloaded their weapons and kept going. The miners were appearing in rapidly smaller numbers, and they were no match for the Winchester shotguns.

Hayes stopped when he saw light down one tunnel, and called out. Fitzroy answered him, and the three came out of the tunnel. Four miners had tried to run out and had been gunned down by the others. Hayes looked back into the tunnels, now eerily silent- tombs. He slung the shotgun and looked back to the men, his men, and nodded.

"Good job."

…

Jack hadn't been able to see what had happened in the tunnels, but he watched with his scope when the government men emerged, covered in dust and sweat and a light smattering of blood. There hadn't been any doubt as to who'd win. The miners were violent, but violence wasn't skill or experience.

The whole thing had been brutal and effective and efficient, and Jack had studied it with a keen eye. These government men were good. Damned good. But he knew how to beat them. Jack Marston mounted his horse, sheathing his rifle, and turned, leaving. They relied on team work. He'd have to get them alone.


	6. Chapter 5: Thieves Landing: An Interlude

Eugene Brigham Hayes read over every report he could get his hands on, anything he could find on Marston's movements. His men and local law had been visiting every settlement in New Austin, chasing every lead, in the three days since Gaptooth Breach. There had been no sign of Marston, and already Fordham was sending him telegrams. He slouched in his chair, sighed. Nothing. Not one damn sign of Marston.

There was a soft nock at his door, and Hayes sat up. "Enter."

Hart walked in, a lit cigar in his mouth and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. "Jesus Hayes, have you slept since the last time I was here?"

That brought back how tired he felt. Hayes sighed again and shook his head. "Not a bit."

"For Christ's sake, Hayes, you've only gotten a few hours of sleep in the past two days. You're not gonna be in any shape to go after Marston when we find him."

Hayes shrugged. "Someone's gotta run the thing."

"Yes, someone does. But if that someone is so exhausted they can't think straight, they won't run things well." Hart took a pull on the whiskey bottle and held it out to Hayes. Hayes took it and sipped. It burned down his throat.

"We've been after him for days and all we've got to show for it are false leads and a dead agent." Hayes replied, almost more to himself than Hart.

Hart nodded sympathetically. "I know how it feels. But you won't be doing Decker any good like this. Get some sleep. New Austin is big. Finding him will take time, but we will find him."

Hayes snorted and smiled. He raised the bottle to Hart. "I can drink to that." He took a long pull on the bottle.

…

Thieve's Landing was probably the safest town in the area for Jack Marston to be, but he still hated it. The mosquitos in the nearby swamp made it miserable, and the road was always muddy. The town itself was filled with men capable of violence, and enough alcohol to make that violence a common event.

Marston hitched his horse at a small building where his father had bought a room years ago. He was tired. The ride north had worn him out, and dodging the rapidly growing number of lawmen hadn't made it easier. The Bureau was quietly bringing out local law enforcement. Marston shrugged. Such was life.

He looked longingly up at the room, but knew he couldn't take the time out, not yet. Instead, he checked his Schofield, and then slung a double barrel on his back. Thieve's Landing was that kind of place.

He strolled quickly across the road, speeding up to get past a carriage, and entered the saloon, listening more than looking for his friend.

The Thieve's Landing saloon was dark and reeked of alcohol and a slight hint of piss and body odor. Men with dark eyes glanced up, assessed him, and went back to their drinks. Several card games were going, with men swearing and slurring, but not fighting, yet. Perfumed whores walked about, and within a minute of entering, two propositioned Marston. He turned them down.

Marston immediately found who he was looking for. Shaky was in a small game of poker, and apparently doing quite well for himself. Marston made his way over, staying largely out of sight.

"W-w-w-w-well b-b-boys, thats another h-h-hand for me." Shaky said as he raked in more money, about ten dollars. The other two looked miserable, and turning angry. Marston slid closer, unlimbering the shotgun but keeping it under his coat.

"Goddamnit Shaky, thats three in a row. No one is that fucking lucky." one of the men growled, and his hand began to slide to a holster on his leg.

"N-n-now f-f-f-fellas, there's n-no n-n-need for any v-violence." Shaky said, waving his hands disarmingly. He looked at his cards and threw them down. Three Kings. The other two men swore.

"You fucking cheater!" the man closest to Marston said, and Marston casually pressed the shotgun barrels into the man's back, cocking the hammers, the sound just barely audible. The man stiffened, not moving.

The other man stood up and drew a revolver. Shaky drew his own, much more slowly and clumsily. He'd been drinking it seemed. The other man looked questioningly at his friend, who was still seated.

"One at my back Bill. I ain't for helpin'." he said.

Bill looked back at Jack, and Jack smiled, as annoyingly as he could. He shoved the sitting man with the shotgun, making a point. "You try anything, and your buddy here won't like the results, friend."

Bill swore, and looked between the two. He swore again and holstered the revolver, shoving his money at Shaky. "You take your money and get outta here."

"I think not, Bill." Marston replied, and pulled the sitting man up. "You and Mr.-" He waited for a name.

"Adrian." The man supplied.

"Right. You and Mr. Adrian will go and take a walk. We've got business here." Jack nodded to Shaky, who nodded back, affably.

Bill swore, and finally agreed. Marston motioned to the door and walked them out, watching as they stumbled into the street and away from the saloon. He turned back, and saw most of the saloon staring at him. He tipped his hat, and holstered the shotgun.

"J-J-Jack! H-h-how're y-you?" Shaky greeted him when he returned. Jack shook his hand and grinned. Stutter aside, he'd always liked Shaky since he'd met him in 1914. Being friends with an arms dealer was nice as well.

"Living the dream Shaky, living the dream. And you?" Jack motioned for a drink, and the bartender grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass and tossed them to him. Jack poured himself a drink, and took a sip.

"W-w-well enough J-Jack." Shaky replied, motioning to the pile of money he'd won. "D-d-drinks are on m-me." he grinned. "S-s-so, what b-brings you h-here? Finally d-decided that you like m-my h-humble town?"

"Not quit." Jack leaned in and told Shaky about the Bureau men, and Gaptooth Breach.

"J-J-Jesus Jack, y-you don't g-get into trouble in halves, do you?"

Jack grinned wolfishly and sipped more whiskey. Shaky swore.

"W-w-well, what d-do you w-want, Jack?" Shaky asked after a minute. Shaky had always come through for him.

"I can't stay in New Austin anymore. Lot of heat is coming down." Jack began, thinking, his mind working slowly from exhaustion.

"I'm g-g-guesssing W-W-West E-Elizabeth is o-out t-t-too." Shaky replied. The two sat for a minute, enjoying their drinks.

"Mexico." They said it together.

"W-w-well, Jack, that w-won't be easy."

"What, because of their new revolution?" Jack smiled and winked at Shaky. "Shaky, I'll be fine. But if you could maybe get me some things, I'd be grateful."

Shaky was nodding his head before Jack had even finished. "Y-y-you name it a-and it's y-yours, Jack."

"Good." Jack pulled a list out of his coat pocket and set it in front of Shaky. Shaky picked it up and read it. Jack nursed his whiskey and waited.

"B-b-bloody hell Jack." Shaky gasped "Y-y-you want me to g-get th-"

"Now now, let's not spoil it Shaky." Jack chided, and raised his glass. "To my daring escape into Mexico."

Shaky shook his head, but raised his glass all the same.

…

Hey all! Thanks for being patient, life has been a bit chaotic and I haven't been able to give the story the attention it deserves. Things are moving along, but we'll still have a few more chapters in New Austin.

Best wishes all. Please read and review.

Trum4n.


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